The Avox Tale: Lavinia's Story
by Sincerely Amanda
Summary: "It's me.  My name is Lavinia Alban.  I am President Snow's niece.  And this is my story."    The story of the redheaded Avox, when she was just known as Lavinia, a soon to be rebel. Pre-Hunger Games.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: Hello, welcome to my latest Fanfic! If you've read my last story (Seventeen At Seven), and are wondering why I'm posting a new story, I'm putting that on hiatus for now. I've been kind of busy, and am not too sure how to end it. I might come back to it, but I'm not sure._

_So anyways, if you're _not _here for Seventeen At Seven, welcome (again)! This is my first Hunger Games fanfic, and I'm scared because I don't know this fandom really well. I'm not too sure how this will turn out... but I do hope it'll have a real ending. It should, if I stick to my storyline well. This story is intended to have a prelogue, 9 chapters and an epilogue._

_While I'm here, I might as well explain my inspiration (you can skip this if you want). I once had a Hunger Games dream, where I actually lived through one. I somehow lost and supposedly died, yet I was reunited with other tributes after the Games. The dream went on, but I remember waking up and asking myself, "What if all the tributes were kept alive by the tracker in their arm until they were taken away by the hovercraft?" This lead to, "Why would they need the tributes alive?" I self-answered this, thinking about Lavinia, the Avox. I imagined her running away, because she knew the dreadful secret of kept-alive, tortured tributes. This seem too farfetched from what we know of Lavinia, so I thought about her companion when she ran away. I've always wondered why Capitol teens would be on the run._

_So this is her story._

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><p><strong><span>Prologue<span>**

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><p>I wake up on a dark day. My alarm clock has been ringing for the past few minutes now, but it was the shock it radiated that made me face the day. As I arise from my nightmares, I remember that I had set the electric shock to rouse me on cloudy days when I wouldn't have wakened myself. Desperate times call for desperate measures.<p>

Jets of cold water burst at my fragile, porcelain skin at every angle as I step into my shower. I shiver as I pull the lever to end it, and wait for the warm air below my feet to dry me.

Dressed only in my robe, I wander over to my walk in closet, filled with clothes I will probably never wear. I choose a simple green attire, with blue accessories. Green and blue have been popular since the 70th Hunger Games, when Annie Cresta wore a stunning gown of green and blue net-like materials to her interview.

I pace over to my dresser, and pick up my brush. My hair isn't a mess, but it's soothing to comb through my crimson red hair the way my grandmother used to. I stare intensely at the photo I see everyday- the one of my dad, uncle, grandmother, and grandfather.

It's an old photo. My dad was probably about my age. He stands next to Grandma. With his trademark smile, he looks to have never aged. That's what plastic surgery does, of course.

Grandma is in her late forties; with her slightly greying hair, you could tell. My grandmother was against trends. She never altered one part of her body- no tattoos, alterations, or dyes.

Grandpa is standing next to her, clearly content. There's no reason he shouldn't have been- he had my grandmother, and two growing sons. A smile like this nowadays is a rare sight needing to be captured.

I'm forced to look through the camera's lens to the final family member. Aside from his white wispy hair, not much has changed. His slits for eyes have remained the same. I can't help but notice how the skins on his lips are tightly stretched, and how he holds a rose between his fingers. It looks as if my uncle had traveled back into time, just to appear in this faded photograph. I flip over to the back.

_The Alban Family. From left to right: Flake, Antonia, Parnell, Snowdon._

If photographs could update themselves, it would say _"The Alban Family, torn apart. From satisfied to lifeless: Advisor Flake, President Snow, known drunk Parnell, Antonia (deceased)." _Because that's just how it is.

I cover my parted lips, which threaten a sob. It's too late. I make a choking noise, softly crying into my hand. I swiftly wipe off my tears before they can do damage to my make up. I eye the girl in the mirror- 16, young, and soon to be brave.

It's me. My name is Lavinia Alban. I am President Snow's niece. And this is my story.


	2. Chapter One: The Outburst

_Author's Note: Hey! First off, I'd like to thank my reviewers for welcoming me to this fandom. Four reviews! That's not bad. ;) Don't worry, I'm a very grateful author. Thank yous to SonofHell666, lacrossefreak100, and FoalyWinsForever._

_Speaking of reviews, I've been given feedback that made me re-read my last AN. I mentioned that I had an inspiring muse to write a story about tributes surviving- I think I said that wrong. I really meant to say that the idea had lead me to this. Sorry if that confused you! In other terms- in this story, tributes don't survive the arena._

_I hope this chapter gets just as much positive comments as the last. This chapter took a while to write, but I had originally intended this to be posted next week, when I had worked more on the next chapter. I couldn't wait, so here you go!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter One: The Outburst<span>**

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><p>I carelessly sling my book bag over the chair's back. I fidget with my desktop screen, reading ahead in the lesson our history teacher has planned. The annual presentation is today. I have been expecting it, since it is midway between the last and upcoming Hunger Games, known to the districts as Victory Tour visit time. My stomach and its contents tumble and somersault as I remember that Fabian will be in the same assembly with us.<p>

Fabian is 17. I like (and possibly love) him. He's… different. In contrast to Capitol children, he is naturally beautiful. I've had a crush on him since I was 6, and his silky blond hair and blue eyes have never been modified. In contrast to us, he doesn't praise or worship the Capitol. He never bets during the Hunger Games. Sometimes, he even implies dangerous meanings as if he thinks the rest of us are too thick to understand. I want so badly to be the one he loves.

Throughout my love life, I've been pain stricken with one problem- my friends.

My friends are strong Capitol supporters. Of course, being one of the president's closest relations makes me one too. However, according to them, a loyal Capitol citizen would not only obey Panem's laws, but enthusiastically be in spirit of their decisions. I can't help but do as they say, and ignore Fabian. It's not as if he would talk to me anyway- being older and indifferent to Capitol leaders.

One of my best friends turns around in her seat to face me. Camellia waves her slightly pink hand over my face, trying to catch my attention. I blink once, to tell her she has succeeded. She grins wildly, and with a voice dropped to a whisper says, "Daydreaming about your lover again?"

I jump back in my chair, startled at her remark. "What?" I could bet all my money that my eyes were as wide as saucers.

With a sly smile, she coyly says, "You're dreaming about Kennedy again?"

I blink incomprehensively. My mouth remains open in a gape as my mind processes that I haven't been caught… yet. Kennedy Conway is a plain, ugly boy, who happens to be ever-so-much the loyalist. I nearly gag.

"Yes, dreaming about the future Camellia Conway's wedding," I say dreamily, as if it was all I had been thinking about. It is true though, that Camellia fancies Kennedy. I've considered many times that she just brings him up just to hear me say I'm not interested.

She snorts a bit too exaggeratedly, waves her hand and turns around to talk to another girl who she knows can keep up a conversation on high-heeled boots. She knows I've got her there.

Soon enough, we're called by the school principal to go the Meeting Room. The Meeting Room is a room large enough to hold at least four to five grades of students. The Senior Division (ages 16-18) have the assembly first this year. Rows of tables and chairs follow the large television screen that takes up one entire wall. My friends and I choose a seat near the back, and I am internally jumping with joy when Fabian and his few friends choose the row in front of us.

While Camellia is talking to my other best friend, Dacia, I eavesdrop on Fabian's conversation. All I want to know is what he likes, and what he doesn't like. If I'm lucky, he and his friends might be starting a conversation on girls. It's far from what I expect.

"I hate Capitol," Fabian says quietly. I suppress a gasp, because no one says anything like this to others. "There, I've said it. Let them call me a traitor. Let the take me away. Let them kill and torture me. They took my parents, and it's only better if I'm no longer used in their blackmailing game." I can't see, but I can tell his face is solemn- a sure sign that he is angered.

"Fabian! What's wrong with you? The Capitol _helps_ us." I can tell that his friend wants him to say more, but at the same time, say nothing. It's dangerous to say a sentence containing "hate" and "Capitol". But at the same time, I'm dying to know how Fabian has lost his parents. Hearing hate in Capitol is a foreign language- but it's a language we're craving to get dirt on.

"My Dad's been outside of Capitol before," Fabian says quickly, as the lights start to dim. "He's-." I'm left hanging on words he hasn't yet said.

"Welcome, Senior Division," says Principal Ares. He pushes his white-streaked hair to the side before continuing, a gesture Camellia and I often make fun of. "Once a year, we gather the years of each division to watch a presentation to get us prepared for the next Hunger Games."

Every year, there's this slideshow that we watch. It's usually the same, with a few exceptions when new victors are added. In the slides, we watch the twelve districts, grinning from ear to ear as their victor comes home with their winnings. I think it's intended to remind us of our excitement, and get us pumped for the next one. Certain memorable moments are replayed, such as the victory moments of the Quarter Quells. I've never lived through one, and am thrilled that I'll be able to recount the 75th in four years to anyone of the next generation.

I can't name too many faces, but I can place a few as the slides transition at the beat of the background music. I recognize Johanna Mason from a few years back, and Finnick Odair, both of whom are practically unforgettable. Some must have won little more than a few years before I was born, because I often see a middle-aged version of them mentoring annually at the Games.

The slides can't have lasted more than ten minutes, because the lights turn on just as my eyes start to settle into the screen-illuminated darkness. I still see coloured shadows in my eyes when I get up to go back to homeroom. But I haven't gotten far when I hear a low thud to my left.

When I turn back in the direction of my table, I see Fabian, standing solidly on the table I was just sitting behind. His lips form a straight line with determination. Our school Peacekeepers are not yet interested in his actions, as there are a few Capitol enthusiasts that display their passion every year by cheering in a way that captures everyone's attention. This, I know, is different.

"Do you believe what they tell you?" Fabian speaks in a commanding voice. His eyes flicker towards Kennedy Conway and his friends, who are painting "District One" on the arms in bold letters. With minimal expression, I can read how he thinks they are revolting.

"You think it's an honour to win. Well, for the least despicable people, they actually acknowledge that there will be twenty three other deaths on their hands." Peacekeepers start to walk across the room, interested if Fabian will really say what is necessary to take him down. "Your greatest worry is losing a bet- it's not waking up on Reaping Day with concerns of being trapped in an arena for a nearly certain death. People are starving, when we're all just throwing up our food for the sake of eating more. Capitol is merciless!"

This does it. The Peacekeepers sprint the last few steps to arrest Fabian; two of them have guns trained on him. It's unnecessary though, because he seems to have lost his message, and is screaming incomprehensively. I guess his later consequences had not been thought out. I pity Fabian inside, but show a cruel, ruthless snarl to match the ones of my friends.

I watch the boy I've loved from afar being taken away by the men and women in white. Clipped words remarking on insanity are caught in my ears. "He had it coming," sings Dacia, and I throw her a knowing look.

"Definitely," agrees Camellia, nodding her head.

I can't hold back my growing curiosity any longer. "What will they do with _him_?" I reference to him in disgust that has never existed.

"Who knows?" Dacia laughs sadistically. They both share a callous smirk, knowing that a Capitol resistance will be taken down today.

I fake a laugh, but no one notices that it is not genuine. Maybe he _did_ have it coming, but something was nagging me in the corner of my mind. Who was his dad? What made him do this rash decision? How much worse is it in the districts?


	3. Chapter Two: The Visit & The Servant

_Author's Note: Hey! Thank you for the reviews: FoalyWinsForever, lacrossefreak100, XxhoneyleafxX. At Lf100- I can't, but you should try that- I honestly hope you like this chapter despite my choice of plot._

_Obviously, not my best chapter, but I'm proud of myself for not being bored out of my mind writing this climax set up. Shockingly, I actually have 2000+ words in the content of this chapter. It's kind of split into 2 parts (one's The Visit, the other's The Servant). Please tell me if this seems to OOC for Lavinia, being a Capitol citizen. I kind of think she seems too much like Katniss would be, if she had been raised in Capitol._

_Note 1: If you noticed like I had, after I had published the prologue, I used Snow as President Snow's first name, whereas Finnick Odair mentions in Mockingjay that Snow's first name is something like "Coriolous" (I don't have Mockingjay next to me, so I don't really remember). I didn't plan on mentioning my error here, and I wanted to give a reason (as an excuse for my careless mistake) in one of these chapters, but it seems like a minor detail, so in case I can't insert it into the conversation/thought line of Lavinia naturally, I'll say it here. Snowdon Alban was President Snow's birth name. When he got elected, he didn't want to use a childish, odd sounding name like "Snowdon". So, he shortened it, renamed himself, and used "Snow" as a surname. This is why later in this chapter he encourages Lavinia to call him "Uncle Snow". It's a very short summary, but I may retell it in the following chapters to come, with more detail._

_Note 2: A shorter note- this chapter ends with a cliffhanger. Don't hate me! :D (REVIEW!)_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Two: The Visit &amp; The Servant<span>**

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><p>When I arrive at the doorstep to my house, I have yet to stop thinking about Fabian. Gazing up at the sun, I can read that it's close to one-thirty. It's just past lunch hour, and school hasn't officially ended for today, so the streets are empty.<p>

A sudden throb in my forehead shoots a sharp twinge to my nerves. I lean against the doorframe, and recklessly release my bag. I think I hear footsteps approaching the door, but it could just be an illusion of my eardrums pounding.

The door swings ajar, and I tumble inside. I'm caught in the arms of Mother, who looks as if she has recently cried. Confusion crosses her face when she sees me. "Why aren't you at school, Vinnie?"

I choke on sobs that have recently appeared on my cheeks. The pain is more intense than ever. I swear I smell the fumes of roses. Mom leads me to the couch, where I lie down and tell her why.

I stutter a lot, and shiver under my newly developed sickness, but Mom is patient as I explain. Not too soon after I had left the Meeting Room, I started to break down. Questions running back and forth; words missing when I tried to put two and two together. I don't tell her about Fabian, or who had pushed me over the edge trying to decipher the simplest codes, but I make sure that she understands that I'm not well enough to return to school. She only nods, and says she knows how it feels. I raise an eyebrow to clarify what she means.

Mom's eyes start to glisten in fresh tears, betraying her cover. She stands up and takes my hand to lead me into the living area. The stench of the roses is more solid, and I signal for her to go on, while I duck my head through the front door. I gasp for a fresh lungful of air. Before I proceed to meet Mother, I vomit my lunch.

Still dizzy, I make my way inside. I'm determined not to breathe, just for the sake of not losing my breakfast as well. When I realize I must, I open my mouth, which forms a gape when I walk into the living room.

President Snow.

I glance at my mother, and my eyes form a question my lips cannot. Why is the President of Panem _here_? Don't get me wrong- our house isn't a District 13. In the same way Mother and I can't address him as a family member, his presence is honourable. Or supposed to be. No one can blame us- every bond I've ever shared with my dad has been replaced by work time. Sometimes it makes me feel better thinking that it's Snow's fault for having my father work for him. Sometimes it's enough to stop me from regretting my own life.

Approximately 17 years ago, Mom and Dad were in love, as ready as they could be to marry. Mom was the youngest of five other children, who were all planning on inheriting a deteriorating retail shop; Dad was uneducated but making some money off a part time job he managed to attain.

Of course, it couldn't have worked out. Even small weddings cost thousands that my parents couldn't have afforded. They had no money to start a family. So my Dad broke if off with my Mom, leaving them both heartbroken, while he set off to be trained as a Peacekeeper to pay for his building debts.

Half way through his training, he got a surprising phone call from Mother. I was a few weeks old, growing inside her womb. Dad got on the next train heading back to Capitol.

When he got there, he knew we were going to be on minimal wage for the rest of our lives. What frustrates me, is that President Snow steps in _right then_. He offered to employ Dad, compromising that the hours wouldn't increase until I was an adolescent.

So here I am, 16 and locked out. I look directly at the coal black eyes of the President. His attire is simple, a white rose against his black business suit.

Mom coughs, willing to not be the first person to speak. My eyes drop to his lapel, and I ask, "What do we owe this pleasure to, Mr President?"

Before he responds, I flash back to what had brought me home. Fabian. Have they figured out that I've wanted to associate with someone who's now in the clutches of Capitol for treason? I swallow a breath to calm myself, only to be sickened by the rose on Snow.

His lips pull back. I honestly can't tell if it's an expression of grimness or of one being told a dark joke. "Please, call me Uncle Snow," he says. He then informs me in a monotone, "I did not want to be a carrier of bad news, but I knew that this was my responsibility. Your father… he dropped dead at lunch."

It's a dark joke. It's a prank. President Snow is this week's host of some reality television program. I know that any second now, the moment I start to cry, the crew will come out and laugh at me. And Mom too. She would never play a part in a cruel joke. I wait for the surprise. I look at Mom. Instantly, I know it's all real.

"No," my inaudible voice says. "It's not true."

"I'm sorry," Snow says. I know he's trying to sound sincere, so I don't interrupt. "I'm so sorry. I know I can never make it up to you, but I'd like to propose an offer." He pauses, as if there may be someone to interrupt him.

"I would like to invite you both to live in my home, with my family. I'm aware of how you are both unable to find an alternate income at this moment, so I'd like to offer two bedrooms for your use. The best of foods will always be available for you, and you'll be able to live in just as much and more of the luxury you already have. I don't offer this to everyone, but we are family after all." Snow smiles, and I try to find the loop hole. I can't help but think again, _and you help _now_?_

I look at Mom for an answer, but she remains as pale as she had when Snow dropped the weight on me. There's no doubt that she knew moments before I staggered in, but she probably had a glimmer of hope until he said it again to me.

I mull over the offer. I know Mom will not be well enough to find a job any time soon, and as far as I could see, there were no strings attached. I speak for my paralysed mother. "Yes, I'll accept. Thank you." I manage a smile, but it doesn't linger.

President Snow stands up, and nods politely. "Will tomorrow morning be too early for us to move your belongings over?"

"No, not at all." Mother recovers her voice, but doesn't move from her seat to escort him to the door. Snow goes towards the door alone, probably pitying himself for having a family with such horrible manners. Or pitying us, for our loss. Whoever he was pitying, our behaviour is excused, and I hear the door shut behind him.

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><p>The interior of my new room has already been decorated in white furniture. White walls, white drapes, white bedding. Every room in Capitol has a theme- even my old room had a pink silk theme. I consider myself lucky that my room isn't all red like my mother's. Still, through the afternoon light, I find my eyes burning from light reflecting off the walls.<p>

I go to put away my clothes into the dresser, but I find it to have already been filled with pallid coloured clothes in my size. It's odd, because I'm in mourning. I look down at myself, realizing I'm absorbing all the heat in the room with my all-black dress.

I leave my room to walk over to my Mom's, but I'm stopped when I see a wheeled table of platters in front of my door. Believing that it must have been for either Mother or I, I read the note sitting on the one empty space of the cloth:

_Dear Amy & Lavinia,_

_Bearing in mind your loss, I would not object in giving you two the privacy of eating in your rooms this week. At 1:30, your servant will collect the table, platters, & dishes outside of your door. But if you do wish to join us, lunch is at 12._

_Sincerely,_

_Snow._

I knock on the door, and the door opens up a crack. After realizing it's me, she welcomes me in. Well, sort of welcomes, considering that she doesn't say a word.

The room has a dark demeanour, with colour schemes of just cherry red and black lace. Mom wanders back to her original spot, I suppose, sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed. She hasn't done much to settle in, as brown boxes are collecting dust in the corner of the room. Figuratively, of course, as nothing in Capitol is dirty.

I quickly pace outside, and wheel the table in. After numerous tries, and discouraged noises, I finally manage to have it ready in front of her. "Mommy," I say softly, "lunch is here."

I haven't called my Mom "Mommy" since I'd outgrown it 6 years ago. But now I'm all she has. I used to think we had already lost Dad- even when he was there with us, I remember hearing him argue with Mom. Maybe hard memories are better than none at all. Or maybe she misses who her lover used to be.

Mother acknowledges my gesturing to the platters by nodding. Her cheeks are hollow, despite the fact that the only possible meals she could've missed would've been one dinner and a breakfast. I pick up one dish, a seafood plate, and try to spoon-feed her. Being an only child, I have no experience of this kind. After many trials and errors, even Mom is exasperated, and finally decides the eat herself. I can only hope that a full course meal will fill out her empty cheeks.

I begin to start eating as well. I am shocked to discover how many variations of bread the districts have. Seaweed coated loaves from District 4, compared to seeded slices from District 11, for example. I end up trying a little bit of everything.

As 1:30 approaches, neither of us have space in our stomachs to swallow the food on our forks. Without any progress in Mom's movements, I start cleaning up.

When I wheel the table out, I decide to wait to tell the servant to not throw the entire table out. Even though I have always been better off than most of Panem, I have never been one to waste food I've never touched. It must be due to the fact that I come from parents that once went near poverty.

I fidget with my fingers, peeling off the black coat of recent nail polish. I start nibbling on the tips of it, despite it being recently grown again through nail replacement surgery. I put my habit on hiatus when I see a shadow advancing towards the cart.

Gesturing to a few of the dishes, I say, "We haven't eaten all of it, just in case you plan on throwing it all out." I glance up, to see if the servant took notice of what I have said. That one quick glance transformed into a held gaze.

The uniform gave nothing away, but one look at his face said everything. The golden strands framing his set jaw, the clarity, the recognition of his eyes- I stand in shock as he takes in mine.

My servant is Fabian.


	4. Chapter Three: The Eyes

_Author's Note: Hey! First of all, I want to apologize for my absence... Has it actually been a year since I've updated? That's crazy. I'm so, so, sorry for abandoning you guys with that cliffhanger, I hope you forgive me. How incredibly evil of me to do. I promise that my next update will come sooner than this did._

_A few things. First, my thanks to HG . Girl97, FoalyWinsForever, lacrossfreak100, XxhoneyleafxX, Jabberjays (wow, how'd you manage to beat everyone to this username? haha), The Dauntless Mockingjay, KatnissTheMockingjayy, WildCroconaw, .Paradise, Katy-CatCullen, Cyndaquill13 and my questionable anons for reviewing! Especially to the second, third, and forth I mentioned, my favourite reviewers for always... well, reviewing (and I really hope you guys haven't given up on me)! Katy-CatCullen, private message me if you're still there and want to discuss; .Paradise, Lavinia is an Avox first mentioned in The Hunger Games (book), but unnamed in THG movie. If anyone else has only watched the movie, I strongly suggest you read the book- everyone I know has fell in love with it at the first page!  
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_Speaking of the movie, what'd you guys think?  
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_Last of all, the reason for my absence and return: I lost my plot overview! No worries, I remember the outline and fixed the bugs, and Lavinia's Story will continue to live on! I always read my reviews, and I was starting to feel guilty when new people started reviewing and had nothing to work with. That, and my sister wrote a THG fanfic, and I was motivated to continue mine! (She asked me to promote hers by the way, her username is FelFromTheSky, so go check it out!)  
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_Sorry for the long A/N. REVIEW!  
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><p><strong>Chapter Three: The Eyes<strong>

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><p>It's seconds, possibly minutes, before I break from his eyes. I pathetically stare at his bottom lip, wishing that I was not the one who benefited from his loss of a tongue. I watch as he struggles to swallow his pride.<p>

"Here," I push the table gently towards him. For once in my life, I'm nervous. Of all times, I can't say more than a syllable without fears of stuttering. It's tense; I'm afraid of making myself weak to someone I'll never be with, someone so low in the positions of Capitol citizens.

Without another word, I turn on my heels to walk back into my all-too-cheery bedroom.

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><p>"Lavi!"<p>

I'm actually content that things will return back to normal- whatever "normal" used to be. "Daci!"

"Look at _you_," says Dacia, a little too cheerfully. "Did your mom _finally_ let you get surgery? You look, like, _way_ skinny."

I look down, seeing that my winter coat was a lot looser than it had been weeks ago. "No… I was in mourning…" I'd already told Camellia about my late father, but it seems apparent that she hadn't passed that message on.

"Aw, that sucks. But hey, you've never looked better." I roll my eyes, realizing that expecting sympathy from Dacia was like expecting District 12 to win the Hunger Games- extremely rare and nearly impossible.

I stand there patiently, pretending to be listening to her gush about her next surgical alterations. I'm glad when classes start, knowing that I'll have a full five hours of learning to distract my thoughts.

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><p>"Hey." I blink fast, as I notice Camellia's pink fingers snapping in front of my eyes. Camellia is looking at me expectantly, as if I had been out for an hour. "Hey, Lavi?"<p>

"Y-yeah?" Fantastic. Just three days ago, I was babbling like a demented whacko to my mother. Two days ago, I could only say one word to my avox. Now I'm stuttering. I cough, faking a cold as an excuse for why I'm talking like my vocal chords aren't cooperating.

Camellia's honest brown eyes (surgically altered, of course) peer into mine. "What happened that day?" she asks in a low voice.

"What day?" I ask absently. I push the genetically grown cafeteria food around my plate, not bothering to swallow the hollow taste.

"You know, the day Fabian Safford got _arrested_."

My hand freezes in its track. "You know what happened. I got sick. I came home. My dad turned out to be dead. Maybe we have some connection," I say with bitter sarcasm.

"Alright," she says, holding up her hands in defence. "It just seemed a little weird to me."

Maybe because it is…

Camellia pushes on. "Did you get sick thinking about what could've happened to him?"

"There's not much it could've been. I mean, it could've been really bad food poisoning-."

"No, Lavi, I meant thinking about what could've happened to Fabian." Camellia has that serious look in her eyes- one that she never uses when talking about shoes or boys.

Camellia and I have been best friends since we were 10 years old. I still recall the day we met.

"When I grow up, I'll be President of Panem!" Camellia used to boast. She never lost her dignity, even when she was toothless, due to the fact that she was losing most of her teeth that year.

"You can't be President!" some kid had shouted. "There's no such thing as a _pink_ President," he sneered.

I never bothered asking how it happened, but Camellia Lycia broke that day. Her lip quivered, and her rosy pink skin-dye deepened with humiliation. Seeing all the attention attracted to her crowd, I decided to step in. Pulling her by her wrists, I guided her to the girl's washroom to help her clean up. "I think you can do it," I said sincerely. At the time, maybe I was a bit naive, still angered that my father had been recently taken away from me because of his job. Maybe I wanted to believe she could be the one to someday take over leadership in Panem, and have my dad return to play with me.

"Do you really think so?" asked Camellia, wide eyed, innocent and afraid of the answer.

"I'd never lie to you."

"Promise?"

I hadn't hesitated when I said, "Promise."

I look past 16 year old Camellia, because I know I can't break it staring right into her eyes. "I've never thought about it. And now I'll never think about it- he's my avox." It's only half a lie, but the only thing I've ever hid from her was my attraction to Fabian, and only for the sake of not being an outcast. I'm starting to feel disgust towards what he said and was- there's a lot more pressure hiding an old secret.

Camellia raises a brow. "Whoa, really? That's crazy."

Snorting, I say, "Tell me about it! I mean, my father died, the least they can do is not give some weird freak from school access to my room." I look at her eyelashes instead, daring myself to believe what I'm saying is true. _Isn't it?_

I casually twirl a red lock around my index finger, and look down with an intended expression of being disinterested in my food, but I can feel Camellia still grazing to meet my eyes. Grazing to know if what I'm being entirely honest.

"That must be horrible," she says shortly. I see her flushed finger tips resting on the back of my right hand that remained on the table before I feel it. A sympathetic gesture. Yet when I look up, her eyes are easy for me to read as it is when she's reading mine.

But she already knows. She knows I'm lying.

"It is," I say, and I sharply withdraw from my seat. Her eyes evoke the uncomfortable feeling I've been experiencing since last Friday… but I must've been misled into thinking so, if I think I can feel that way with my loyal friend of six years.

Misled… yes. Most likely due to my father's death, the stress of moving into the President of Panem's house, watching someone I loved being taken away, and having him appear in my new home to serve me. Certainly, all are causes to being misled.

I balance my tray on the lip of the garbage disposal, and with one final breath, I let my meal fall away from my hands and away from me.

I decide that my lunch will not be unlike Fabian.


End file.
